


A Picture in My Mind (All I Have is)

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: All Dogs Go to Heaven (1989)
Genre: Angst, Coda, Friendship, Gen, Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Itchy doesn't want to think about what he's lost. (Set just after the 1989 film.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Picture in My Mind (All I Have is)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [usedusernames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/usedusernames/gifts).



> Dear recipient, I've only ever seen the 1989 film and the first sequel, so this fic may not be canon compliant with the rest of the series.

There’s a moment after just waking up where Itchy has to remember why he’s tucked underneath a warm cotton blanket, instead of sleeping inside the disembowelled remains of a car like any respectable dog. That moment of disorientation’s been getting shorter and shorter lately, but it’s still there, like the last comforting wisps of a dream fading away before he’s snapped back to reality.

“Itchy, breakfast!”

He stirs, but doesn’t move. Eyes closed, he sniffs deeply, finding the tantalizing scents of muffins, coffee and strawberry jam curling over from where he can hear someone puttering around the kitchen.

“Itchy, Itchy, Itchy.” The voice is closer now, soft but persistent. Itchy tries to burrow deeper but small hands find his body and squeeze, forcing out an irritated yelp. “Itchy, time to wake up!”

“ _Uncle_!” Itchy barks. He tries to turn it into a growl but it comes out a hacking laugh instead when Anne-Marie’s fingers find his soft underbelly, tickling instantly. He laughs – despite everything, he laughs – and she laughs with him, her voice like little bells.

Itchy pokes his head out from under the blanket, squinting one eye up at the kid, who is of course grinning ear to ear. She curls her fingers around his ear, scratching gently, which makes his leg thump softly against the cushion.

Somewhere in the background Kate and Harold are murmuring something about what _an adorable pair they make_.

He feels embarrassed, which is a good, sharp feeling to have, because it’s right that he be embarrassed about it.

“Breakfast time, Mister Sleepyhead,” Anne-Marie sing-songs. She climbs out of his basket, and Itchy watches the dance of her little white shoes as she trots over to the breakfast table. “Come on, Itchy, it’s the most important meal of the day.”

Itchy follows.

But he’s doing it not because he’s being obedient or whatever, but because he’s not foolish enough to turn down free food. It’s pretty decent free food, too, though admittedly not as great as the slop that he and Cha— that the street vendors downtown could fry up in their sleep. There’s no grease or fat in _this_ doggy chow, but it goes down okay, and Itchy doesn’t have to gobble it down ASAP to make sure no one else catches the scent and comes a-runnin’ to get a few scraps.

Free food at no effort. Itchy ain’t gonna turn his nose up at that, no sirree.

“Do you think we should walk him, dear?” Kate asks. It’s the only time in their cheery human conversation where the topic turns to him, so Itchy raises a curious ear to Kate’s words. “He’s been indoors for an awful long time. Just about since the night we got him, isn’t that right?”

“Do you want a walk, Itchy?” Anne-Marie asks, peering at him over the edge of the breakfast table.

“Nah, I’m good,” Itchy demurs.

“Itchy says he’s good,” Anne-Marie parrots back.

Itchy rolls his eyes at the little indulgent laugh Kate makes, but that’s not worth thinking about right now. All he wants to do is get back to that little basket, which he does, flopping into the soft cushions that now well and truly smell of him and no one else.

He even manages a couple of minutes of shut-eye before he hears Anne-Marie approach and ask, “Do you want to play?”

“I’m tired, can I just have a nap?” Itchy asks.

He’s not even lying. Itchy _is_ tired, all the way down to his bones, which is understandable considering how up until recently his life has been all about panic and running and hiding. Okay, so madcap schemes weren’t exactly new because that was the norm with Char— because there was always something or the other going on in Itchy’s life. The chance to exhale came so rarely that now he had one, he felt no particular need to let it go.

Anne-Marie slides her arms around his neck and squeezes. “Okay,” she says, and then leaves him be.

And so that this day would have gone just like the days before it, with Itchy resting in his basket and only occasionally coming out for food or to sniff around the living room because it’s only polite and his mama brought him up right on that part at least. That’s been Itchy’s routine as of late, so why would he think that today would be any different?

But it is, because today Kate and Harold take Anne-Marie for an outing, and when they come back, they have a paper bag with them.

Itchy eyes it disinterestedly from the basket when they bring it in, Harold putting it on the counter. It’s too small for groceries, and Itchy can’t smell anything more interesting from it other than cured leather.

“Hey, boy,” Harold says, glancing over at Itchy.

“Hey, yourself, long-legs,” Itchy replies, scratching behind one ear.

Anne-Marie is bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet but the kid gets excited by _rain_ , so that doesn’t really mean anything. Still, there’s definitely something going on with the bag Harold’s rifling into. Itchy can feel it in the air, so he sits up cautiously.

“We’ve got a present for you, boy,” Harold says, lifting his hand out of the bag.

“Oh, no,” Itchy gasps, tumbling out of the basket. “No no no no no—”

“Hey, boy.” Harold probably means to sound soothing, but the effect is the opposite, sending shivers of terror up Itchy’s spine. “Come on, good boy.”

“No way!” Itchy wails, backing up rapidly until his rump hits the wall. He skin starts to tingle, familiar irritations crawling across his fur until he has no choice but to twist his body and scratch frantically. “Collars are for Poodles and Chihuahuas and dames with fancy haircuts! I’m not a Poodle! I’m not a Chihuahua! Look at me, I’m not even cute!”

“He doesn’t look very happy about it, dear,” Kate says worriedly.

“You _think_?” Itchy shrieks, trying to scratch and press his body into the wall at the same time.

“A lot of dogs don’t like collars at first,” Harold says to Anne-Marie, bringing that horrible-looking leather leash another step closer. “But they get used to it.”

“I’ll never get used to it!” Itchy barks, shoving himself up into the corner as tight as he can to get away from Harold’s hands. He darts his head around, catching Anne-Marie’s eyes and whining, “Tell ‘em I don’t want it.”

“The man at the pet store said that all dogs have to have one,” Anne-Marie says in that thoughtful, matter-of-fact way that reminds Itchy of Flo. “It’s called a license.”

Itchy goes cold, like someone has just walked over his grave.

“I’m not a pet,” he whispers, horrified.

Anne-Marie’s eyes widen. “Of course not, Itchy.”

Behind her, Kate and Harold exchange a quick, concerned look that Itchy recognizes immediately. Kate touches Anne-Marie’s shoulder, saying, “Honey...”

“I should’ve gone when I had the chance,” Itchy groans. He’s gotten _soft_ , forgetting so easily that roofs and warm beds come at a price.

(They could’ve been in Boca by now, sipping drinks on the beach and studying the local scene before starting up a brand new business together _the way he always promised him they would_.)

“Come on, boy,” Harold says, his huge human hands reaching for him.

Itchy yelps, darting between Harold’s legs with the kind of speed that comes from having had to escape the clutches of pound snatchers since he was pup. He tears across the room, knowing that there’s a good chance that the kitchen door will be left open.

“Itchy, Itchy, wait!” Anne-Marie shouts.

Itchy ignores her, desperate to flee. He darts around the legs of the breakfast table, eyes focused on the escape—

Which is suddenly cut off when Harold beats him to it and slams the door shut. Itchy yelps, changing direction mid-leap and dashing back the way he came, only to be startled when the route brings him face-to-face with Kate, who is stretching her arms out to catch him.

But it’s Harold who catches him in the end, strong human hands grabbing him around the stomach and lifting him off the ground.

“Put me down, put me down!” Itchy protests, but the hands gripping him hold fast. “You are not the boss of me!” He growls and flails wildly, not caring that this could mean that he’d be booted out into the street, because he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want it, he ain’t no domesticated pup—

“Put him down!” Anne-Marie yells.

Itchy freezes, more out of shock that Anne-Marie raised her voice than anything else. He goes limp in Harold’s hands, and when he tilts his head round he catches sight of the downward turn of Anne-Marie’s mouth, which is curious and unusual.

“Itchy doesn’t want it,” Anne-Marie says, arms crossed.

“Honey, it’s okay,” Kate says, lowering herself down to her knees to put an arm around Anne-Marie comfortingly. “Dogs don’t know what’s best for them, that’s why we have to make their decisions on their behalf.”

“That’s not true,” Anne-Marie starts to say, “Charlie used to—”

“Kid, you better be quiet,” Itchy says quickly, wincing at the worried look Kate gives Harold.

But the kid ain’t smart. Itchy can see that she’s raring up to say something that’ll ruin everything she’s earned here, so Itchy does the only thing he can do and leaps out of Harold’s arms, landing on the floor and running.

There’s more yelling, but this time Itchy makes it to the breakfast table, jumping on the seat, the table, and then leaping out the window. He lands in the flower bed, skidding across dirt and tumbling into the tall stalks, _free._

“Woo hoo!” Itchy jumps up on to his feet, looking around wildly. He can just make out the end of the street so he starts running towards it, bursting out of the flower bed in a flurry of feet and energy, bounding down the pavement and around the corner as fast as he can.

He has no idea where he’s going but anywhere’s better than back there.

“Itchy!”

He skids, flails, and then rolls over in surprise.

“Itchy, Itchy,” Anne-Marie chants, the clip-clop of her brand new Mary Janes loud on the pavement.

He backs away from her quickly, though he can’t see the looming figures of Harold and Kate shadowing her. He could still run, duck into an alley or a drain that the kid can’t follow, but something stops him – some leftover unwanted responsibility, perhaps.

“You gotta go back, Anne-Marie,” Itchy says, taking a quick opportunity to scratch another spot behind his neck. “Kate and Harold will be worried.”

“Then we go together,” Anne-Marie replies. When Itchy starts to shake his head, she says, sterner this time, “ _Together_ , Itchy.”

“No!” Itchy barks, which makes her stop in her tracks.

He takes a deep breath. He knew that it would have to come down to this; that he would have to have this confrontation if he couldn’t escape fast enough.

(He hadn’t wanted to think about anything, at first. He’d just been tired, weary all the way down to his bones thanks to everything that’d happened, so it’d been easier to just fall, to allow Anne-Marie and her human-shaped new parents to hold him for a while, let him rest.)

It’s high time he move on with his life.

“I’ve got find a new home,” Itchy tells her. “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, I really am, but I think it’s time that we part ways.”

Acceptance settles over Anne-Marie’s features. She nods, once. “Okay. Let me get my things.”

“What? No!” Itchy yelps. “You’re not coming with me. I’m going alone.”

“No, you’re _not_ ,” Anne-Marie says, practically stamping her foot. “We need to stick together, and I’m going with you, so there!”

“Okay, now it’s just getting ridiculous.” Itchy squinted up at her as he dealt with another itch behind his foreleg. “I don’t have time to deal with you, go back to your new parents.”

“I _promised_ ,” Anne-Marie says stubbornly. “I love Kate and Harold, but I had you and Charlie first.”

“Will you quit it about Charlie!” Itchy screams.

Anne-Marie stares at him, shocked.

“Charlie’s _dead_ ,” Itchy snarls, something inside him quietly snapping. A part of him is horrified at what he’s saying, but he’s not tired anymore, he’s _angry_. “And he’s never coming back.”

(But he keeps glancing up sometimes, expecting a familiar handsome grin, parting with an obnoxiously loud _suprise, Itchy!_ but it’s always a trick of the light, nothing real, it’s too much to expect the same miracle twice.)

“But Charlie—” Anne-Marie starts.

“Is _gone_!” Itchy feels so small, nothing more than a tiny speck in the world. “My best friend, and he’s _gone_ , do you understand what that means? Do you?”

Anne-Marie goes quiet.

“I grew up with Charlie,” Itchy says, shivering all over. “He’s my best friend – he _was_ my best friend – he was the one with all the ideas, and though his ideas were usually _utterly insane,_ they were his, and that made them ours. Do you get that? He was my family.”

(Losing him the first time was bad enough, but when he came back, something had changed. He was still Charlie, stubborn and focused on his goals, but he was on edge where he used to be laidback, and now Itchy gets it – Charlie had been on borrowed time, and he’d _known it_ , and he _hadn’t told him_.)

Itchy hears a faint rustling of cloth than makes him crack open an eye. Anne-Marie hasn’t made any move to approach, but she’s nervously fiddling with the edge of the skirt. She whispers, “Charlie said goodbye doesn’t mean forever.”

He scowls at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He said to take care of you!” Anne-Marie says, and Itchy’s winded when she suddenly flings her arms around his body, hugging the living daylights out of him. “Charlie said that, because he’s worried about you.”

“You don’t know the first thing about Charlie,” Itchy mutters.

“I know that he loves you,” Anne-Marie replies.

Just like that, Itchy deflates.

(Charlie and he, they’d rib each other, snarl at each other, but they always did that in the safety of knowing that they’d always have each other’s back through thick and thin and dames and strange little girls who could talk to animals, but their last conversation had been an argument and in all the time they’ve been friends they’d never outright _said_ —)

“He _does_ ,” Anne-Marie insists, her hold relaxing into something softer, more comforting, chubby fingers digging into the space behind his ears. “And he said to take care of you.”

Itchy almost laughs at that. _When_ , he wants to ask. It’s impossible, there couldn’t have been time.

Except...

Except that Anne-Marie is irrevocably incapable of lying.

“He came to say goodbye,” Anne-Marie says. “You were asleep. And then he said to take care of you, and that goodbye isn’t forever.”

Itchy stares at her. Kid doesn’t lie. Kid probably doesn’t know _how_.

At that realization, part of Itchy bristles with new hurt – Charlie saw the kid, but not _him_ – but the rest of him is relieved, because he doesn’t think he could have handled another goodbye. Not after everything that had happened that night.

If he’d been the one to see Charlie, he’d probably have tried to follow.

“Goodbye isn’t forever,” Itchy echoes.

He feels shaken, split apart again like the night Charlie went flying the air, the relief of the months that followed his miraculous revival all the more precious now in his memory.

Anne-Marie is watching him silently, eyes worried and innocent.

Itchy studies her right back, trying to see what Charlie saw in her. It couldn’t have been just her innocent trust and hilarious naivety that’d ended up bringing out the best in Charlie. There must have been something else.

(She is his last link to Charlie, and all that he was in the end.)

And it must matter that they’re together now, the two of them standing together in the lingering dust left behind by the big, bright comet of a personality that was Charlie B. Barkin.

Charlie wants this. It isn’t even a matter of guesswork; Anne-Marie _knows_.

“Okay,” he says. Anne-Marie still looks uncertain, so he adds, “I’m not saying I’m a big fan of that kind of living. I’m not a pet, I’m from the streets.”

Anne-Marie’s young human child eyes are almost unnerving in their open honesty. “I’m from the streets, too.”

“No, you’re not...”

But... she is, isn’t she. An orphan, a _pup_ , just like Charlie and Itchy and Flo and Flo’s kids, all of them abandoned one way or the other to survive on their own.

Itchy wonders why he never thought of it that way before.

“Anne-Marie?” a familiar voice calls out. It’s Kate, finally searching for them. “Anne-Marie, honey!”

“C’mon kid,” Itchy says, dropping from her lap on to the ground. He sniffs the air, easily making out the twin cents of Kate and Harold approaching. “You can’t let your folks know you can understand me, that’ll just get you in trouble.”

Anne-Marie tilts her head, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Oh boy,” Itchy sighs. Kid doesn’t have a clue. She’s earnest and honest and annoyingly deserving of all the new things she’s gained in her life, unlike Itchy and Charlie, who took or weaselled their way into everything they wanted.

“Anne-Marie!” the voices are closer now.

Itchy smiles up at Anne-Marie, coming in close enough to butt her hand with his head. “It’s a good thing I’m around to watch out for you, then. Follow my lead.”

  


(Somewhere else, Charlie smiles. “You take care of each other, now.”)


End file.
